


The God Squad

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, FBI AU, Genetic Modification, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, established Destiel, fbi in training, special agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester joined the FBI to help people, not man the phones and deal with conspiracy theorists. When an opportunity arises to enter a training program under the elite, Sam seizes it with both hands.</p><p>He didn't realise just how much it would change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The God Squad

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I started a long long time ago, and just found. I'm putting the first chapter out here to garner the reception and see if anyone is actually interested in this.

“Roll call. You all in?”

“Check,” Michael said, pulling the black ski mask off his face. Dark hair stuck up in a chaotic mess. His left arm hung limply in a makeshift sling across his chest, throbbing in dull pulses.

“Here,” Raphael muttered absentmindedly. He was pre-occupied with helping Lucifer into the car.

Lucifer grunted, settling into the leather seat. The back door shut after him. Balthazar noticed a deep gash running the length of his right cheek, and let out an impressed whistle. As Raphael began to clean the cut with antiseptic, Lucifer clenched his jaw and balled his fists. His whole body felt like an aching, bruised mess.

The front passenger door opened, and Gabriel slid in. “Here,” he chimed out, closing the door with a thump after him. Raphael had moved on to applying temporary butterfly stitches up the length of Lucifer’s wound.

“And here I was, hoping you’d kicked it,” Balthazar retorted with a grin. Gabriel punched him on the arm and laughed.

“Not yet, sorry.”

The engine growled into life. Balthazar pulled away, speeding up back onto the road. “We’ll be calling by the hospital wing first. Raph, Gabe, you two get the joy of debriefing Met and Shurley.”

Raphael huffed and muttered, “Remind me to break something next time.” Michael let out a clipped laugh.

“The hell happened though?”

Gabriel jabbed a thumb back at Lucifer, who glared into the back of the passenger seat. “We had our very own Lois-ifer Lane. Asshole couldn’t keep his gob shut.”

“Bite me,” Lucifer hissed back. “I never said I was any good at undercover. Not my fault, anyways. The dick kept slamming Shurley, and I have a short temper.”

“Normally, you don’t yell you’re from the FBI in a room full of bad guys.”

“Gee, thanks for the tip brainiac. I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes, finger hovering over a button on the radio. “Could you two save your cock fight for later, please? I need to call us in.”

Gabriel nodded with a grin, whilst Lucifer muttered under his breath. Raphael sighed as he tried to make Lucifer sit still so he could work easier. Michael watched them all with an exhausted amusement.

Balthazar tapped the button and twisted the volume dial. “Thursday, are you there?”

_“I was beginning to get concerned, Thief. Give me a run down.”_

“Aw, how sweet!” Balthazar replied. “We should be back in just under half an hour. Prince and Rebel need medical treatment. Messenger and Healer are good to brief.”

_“Alright. I’ll pass word on.”_

The connection fizzled to static.

* * *

 

Sam Winchester wasn’t a big shot. Sam Winchester knew that, if someone gave him the chance, he could be one of the best. But for now, Sam Winchester had been saddled with manning the ‘Emergencies’ line in the PR department of the FBI. It wouldn’t be too bad, if he got actual emergencies to pass along.

But no. On the first day of work, Sam Winchester had made the rookie mistake of giving his name to a conspiracy theorist who frequented the line, and now most of his time was spent trying to convince her that no, the FBI were not in fact in contact with alien civilisations, and no, the Illuminati didn’t exist.

He was half tempted to hang up on her again. A meeting with his manager to discuss why that was inappropriate seemed more like a reward than a punishment at this point.

“ _-and this girl told me all about the God Squad. Are they an actual FBI elite team, Sam? Oh my god, are they part of the Illuminati? Are they killing off everyone who opposes the Illuminati’s regime, so nobody tries to rebel against them when they take over?_ ”

“Miss Rosen-“

“ _Are they coming to kill me, Sam? Oh my god I don’t want to die. Can’t you get them to take me off the hitlist, being FBI and all? I mean, I know that I know too much but I won’t tell anyone, I swear!_ ”

“Becky, I assure you that the ‘God Squad’ does not exist. If they did exist, they wouldn’t be coming to kill you.”

“ _You didn’t deny the Illuminati though! Are the Illuminati going to kill me?_ ”

Sam groaned out loud. Someone opposite him laughed at his misfortune. “Miss Rosen, this line is for reporting emergencies. You clearly do not have an emergency, so I’m going to hang up on you now.”

“ _This is an emergency! The Illuminati are goi-_ “

Sam hung up. Crowley would have his ass on a plate for that later, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d joined the FBI to make a difference and actually help people, not to deal with conspiracy theorists who seemed to try and outdo each other with the ridiculousness of each new theory.

“Coffee?”

Sam twisted round in the desk chair to Dean, standing over him and grinning wide. “Please. How long’ve you been there?”

“Long enough to have a good laugh. So, Becky again?”

“Just don’t. It’s ridiculous.”

“C’mon. It’s almost your break. You can tell me all about how Obama is actually a time-travelling Yeti.” Sam snorted and glanced at the clock. Technically, he still had another half hour till his lunch. He glanced over the shut door of Crowley’s office, and decided what the hell. He lifted the phone off the holder and left it lying on the desk. He was already going to get a bollocking; it couldn’t get much worse.

“Sure, why not,” Sam said as he stood up. Dean grinned as Sam pushed the chair under the desk, and clapped him on the back.

“Atta boy. Hey!” Dean’s eyes lit up, like he’d just had the best idea ever, and Sam dreaded hearing it. “How about you ask that Becky chick on a date?”

“No.”

“Why not? The crazy ones are kinkier in the sheets,” Dean retorted with a wink and a nudge. “’Sides, she’s probably smoking, and you’re missing out on all that.”

“Dude, I’ve never even met her.”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “So? If you ask her out, you’d meet her.”

Sam groaned. “I don’t need a date.”

“Mm you do. All that pent up tension ain’t gonna do you any good, Sammy. Let it out on some pretty little thing.”

Sam decided there needed to be a subject change. “So,” he said, glancing across at Dean. “How's it going with Cas?” Sam noticed the small quirk in Dean’s lips at the mention of his boyfriend. Dean swallowed the smile down and feigned indifference.

“Cas is…” Dean sighed happily, and Sam snorted. “Cas is Cas.”

“You're like some love struck pre-teen,” Sam commented. It earned him a soft punch on the arm and a barely there glare. “For real, though. It's nice, how happy he makes you. Real cute.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“You grab us a table; I’ll pay for coffee,” Dean said. Sam chose the only free sofa seat table he could find, and slumped into the cushions. They were old cushions, flat and barely passable as cushions, but it was better than the wooden chairs. Dean came over with a small tray and slid Sam’s cup across the table to him.

“Double shot espresso alright?”

Sam let out a tired laugh. “Double shot espresso is perfect.”

“You that tired?” Dean asked, cupping his hands around the mug. Sam shook his head with a small sigh.

“Nah. It’s just,” Sam paused, trying to figure out how to put his thoughts into words. Dean watched him carefully, devoid of the earlier teasing he’d indulged in. “I’m tired of this. Like, I wanted to go into the FBI, be like Dad and Bobby. It’s been what, four months? It’s not what I was hoping for.”

Dean smiled sympathetically and nodded. “I get you. It sucks, not moving anywhere. You just gotta give it time, Sammy.”

“What if it doesn’t change though? What if ‘m stuck dealing with Becky for the next ten years?”

“Maybe try to get Crowley to notice you?” Dean said with a shrug. “I mean, Cas was telling me that there’s a new training program coming up. Maybe if you stick your neck out, Crowley’ll recommend you?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, because nothing shows potential like answering phone calls.” He took a mouthful of the coffee, almost wincing at the bitterness. Only almost – an espresso a day had made Sam almost numb to the taste.

“Don’t bash the phone operators! They have to put up with bullshit, and work under pressure. And a physique like that…” Dean made an impressed whistle, lifting his eyebrows. Sam rolled his eyes. “That deserve to be working the field. Don’t take a genius to tell you’re not meant for the phone lines.”

“Fairly certain Crowley hates me, anyways. He wouldn’t put me forward.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow in amusement, making a sarcastic “Mhm,” noise as he drank. Sam guessed from the rich brown colour that it was either a mocha or a hot chocolate. “Sure he does, bub.”

“Bub?” Sam asked with a smirk. Dean frowned at him.

“What?”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Benny, bub.”

* * *

 

Sam put the phone down, and fell back into his chair with a sigh. Someone had decided that their cat getting stuck in a tree was an emergency worthy of the FBI, and it had taken him a good part of half an hour to convince them otherwise.

Thankfully, the phone didn’t begin to ring again straight away, and Sam took that as an opportunity to roll his head back to the ceiling and count the circles. He had no idea how many times he’d done this – probably too many – but he never got past one hundred and twenty-ish before someone was calling about an “emergency” or Area 51.

A short, sharp tap on his shoulder brought him back into reality.

Sam turned to Crowley, glaring down at him broody and impatient. His signature black cape coat just added to the whole mysterious and moody air he always carried.

“Am I interrupting something, Winchester?” Crowley said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets.

“Nope! No, just… No calls at the moment.”

Crowley squinted at him and tilted his head, before letting a contented hum at Sam’s response. “Good. My office then, please.” When Sam frowned at him, Crowley huffed. “Sometime today?”

“But what if someone c-“

“I’ve disconnected your phone line.”

“Oh,” Sam said, and nodded slowly. Of course he had. Sam stood up slowly, and Crowley gestured for him to walk in front.

Part of Sam was curious as to why Crowley wanted to speak. Most of Sam was concerned. Sure, Crowley didn’t seem any more pissed off than normal, but it might’ve just started a good Crowley day, and Sam did something to irritate him.

“Sit, Moose.”

Crowley shut the door behind him, and rounded the desk as Sam sat down. He’d only been in Crowley’s office a few times, and each time he’d noted how the décor was… interesting, to say the least. It looked like what a goth’s bedroom aspired to be; dark reds and blacks on every possible surface, whilst still holding an air of maturity and business. It was always impossibly tidy and orderly. Sam didn’t trust people who managed to keep their workspace clean; they spent too much time tidying and not enough working.

“If this about hanging up on Bec-“ Sam started, leaning forward in his chair.

“Shut up,” Crowley snapped, and Sam fell back. His arms dropped onto his lap. “Honestly? I don’t care. The whole reprimand thing is just protocol; I couldn’t care less about those conspiracy nut jobs.”

Sam frowned, his brow furrowing. “What’s this about, then?”

Crowley lounged back in his leather recliner, kicking his feet up onto the desk. “I don’t have to deal with your sorry ass anymore.”

“What?” Sam jolted forward, his hands gripping the edges of the desk as he stood up. “You’re firing me?”

“Settle down, you bumbling oaf,” Crowley growled. Sam obliged, hesitantly. “I don’t have to deal with your sorry ass anymore, because someone else does. Congrats, kid.”

Sam paused, glancing down at the floor as he tried to fathom Crowley’s remark into something that made sense. Crowley had obviously noticed, judging by the groan and the papers shoved at Sam.

“You’re gonna have to quicken up if you want to cut it, Moose.”

Sam grabbed the papers, glancing at the title on the top. It read ‘ _Project: Hunter_ ’ in big bold letters. Glancing down the page, he only recognised three names. Himself, Dean Winchester, and Chuck Shurley. S eyes went a little wide at that as he stared in disbelief.

“Shurley’s overseeing this? As in, head of FBI Shurley?”

Crowley nodded with a sly smirk. “You’re playing with the big boys now.”

“What is this?”

“A little project Chuck coined up. A program to train some of our most promising under our best.”

Sam glanced back over the names. He was fairly certain he’d heard someone mention Michael in passing, but none of them struck a familiar chord with him.

“Why haven’t I heard of them?”

“They’re classified.”

Sam huffed in disbelief. “Why am I on the program?”

“They needed someone who could deal with an annoying asshole, and I volunteered you forward,” Crowley said, neutral and gravelly. “You might’ve shown some potential, but that didn’t sway me.” Sam grinned at the offhand compliment, and looked at his name on the sheet again.

“Thank you,” he said, all giddy and excited. “Thank you so much!” It clicked with him that Dean probably already knew, having brought it up over coffee.

“Save the soppiness, kid. Just prove to me I’ve made the right decision, alright?”

Sam nodded aggressively. He could feel his cheeks beginning to protest at the wide smile on his face, but he couldn’t care less. This was what he’d been waiting for. The chance to prove himself, and get out in the field. And if he was training under the best? Well, that just made it ten times better.

“Get out of my office before you drool or something. I’ll email you a copy of the timetable, but you should already have one in there.”

“Okay,” Sam said, pushing himself out of the chair and clutching the wad of papers tight. “Thank you again, really.”

Crowley squinted and glared at him, before pointing at the door. “Out.”

Sam left the room in a giddy happiness, barely containing himself. He pulled out his phone and hit the little envelope next to Dean’s name. He typed out ‘ _you sly bastard. you knew, didn’t you?_ ’ with a shaky finger, and hit send.

His phone buzzed pretty quickly in response.

_From: Dean Winchester  
;)_

_From: Dean Winchester  
congrats, sammy!!!! me n cas r gonna hit the bar if u wanna join. bit of celebrating!!! ;)_

Sam started walking to the exit as he replied, tucking the papers under his arm. He tapped out ‘ _sounds good, sure! when/where?_ ’ and sent it with a grin. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. The phone buzzed again as he was climbing into the driver seat.

_From: Dean Winchester  
get to mine for 7 :)_

Sam smirked and tossed the phone onto the front passenger seat.

* * *

 Four and a bit hours later, Sam found himself sat in a dingy booth with Dean and Castiel and a fuzzy head.

“So,” Dean said, his face a little too serious for the slurred vowels he struggled to pronounce. “We gonna need codenames, right?”

“Right,” Castiel replied, staring at Dean like he was the cure for cancer. Not that he didn’t normally stare at Dean like that, Sam just noticed it more in this mind set. “Codenames mean… Codenames mean… I don’t know.”

Dean laughed, and Sam found himself laughing too. Okay, so maybe his head was a little more than fuzzy. He was allowed to drink, especially to celebrate.

“What’s your codename, Cas?” Sam asked.

“My codename?” Castiel had replied, frowning with a head tilt.

“Yeah, yeah. Your codename. You have a codename, right?”

Castiel’s face lit up as he understood what Sam was asking, though Sam didn’t know how it could’ve meant anything but one thing. “Thursday,” Castiel said proudly, holding his head a little higher.

“Why Thursday?”

Castiel shrugged quite dramatically. “Dunno.”

“What would my codename be?” Dean asked, and now apparently it was his turn to look at Castiel like he was the only thing in the world.

“You,” Castiel slurred, jabbing a finger at Dean, “would be… Love of my Life.” Dean lifted his brow, blushing a faint pink. The alcohol might've helped bring out his blush, too.

“Love you, you big sap,” Dean replied, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“Clearly, I'm codename Third Wheel,” Sam said. He'd thought maybe, just maybe, they'd hear his comment and stop groping each other. Apparently not, as the kiss was becoming far too heated for PG rated as Castiel tugged at Dean’s hair.

Sam coughed, and Castiel broke away. He flashed Sam an embarrassed, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, not sorry,” Dean said, and shrugged.

“You disgust me,” Sam retorted, the sarcasm blatant in his smile.

“You just need some ass, Sammy. I’m telling you, sex solves everything.”

“Sex doesn-“

Dean pressed his finger against Castiel’s lips and made a drawn out “Shhhhh,” sound. Castiel huffed, and pulled his hand from Dean’s intertwining fingers. “Cas doesn’t get that, with enough effort, sex does in fact solve everything.”

Sam quirked his eyebrow. “Huh. So, getting fired?”

“Pity sex,” Dean replied, like it was the obvious response.

“Divorces?”

“Happen because there’s not enough sex,” Dean continued Sam’s sentence, to Sam and Castiel’s amusement. “Seriously, spice it up a bit and the marriage will be happy.”

“World hunger?”

“Pie, followed by sex.” Dean nodded, content with himself.

Castiel loosely gripped Dean’s wrist and pulled it away from his mouth. “What if I’m annoyed with you for shushing me?”

Dean grinned and winked. “Angry makeup sex. I’m telling you, sex solves everything.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam said. When the waitress came over to collect their glasses, Dean was painfully obvious as he glanced between Sam and her exposed cleavage with wide eyes. Sam just clenched his jaw in response, and twisted his head in the opposite direction.

“Dude,” Dean hissed once she’d walked out of earshot. “The hell? She was smoking, and making eyes at you.”

“She wasn’t making eyes at Sam,” Castiel inputted, frowning in confusion.

“Caaaas,” Dean whined. “You’re killing me, man. It’s called the beautiful art of exaggeration, and it gets people laid!”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying lying, Dean. And lying is not a good foundation for a relationship.” Dean groaned, and Sam laughed as Castiel slipped into a serious mind set.

“I’m talking one night stands, not getting married.”

“Maybe I don’t want a one night stand?”

“No-one asked for your opinion, Sammy.”

Sam made to protest, but Dean raised his finger and Sam sighed. He knew this wouldn’t be over till Dean had managed to hook him up with someone, even if it only lasted a night. Pushing himself out of the booth onto unsteady feet, Sam trudged back over to the bar. It was his turn to pay, and they could all still manage a few more rounds.

**Author's Note:**

> If you do want to see this continued, please leave a comment (and also whether you'd prefer a more serious plot or a lighthearted one, as I have two in mind and am split between them)
> 
> If you want to chat, you can find me at astralgabriel.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
